James Winters: Runnin' from the Popo

There are only a few times in a journalist’s life where he gets to report on a story like this one.

The call came around 11:30p.m., November 15th. I remember it vividly because a neighbor of mine’s dog had been diagnosed with worms, so I decided I would chase my mastiff around the house trying to peek up his butt to see if he had them too. Just as I pinned him down and caught the first glimpse of our new worm roommate, my cell rang. It was Doug, he helps me edit articles and takes a few snapshots every once in awhile.

‘What the hell do you want,’ I snarled into the phone, still pinning the dog down with my crotch over his face. The worm was hanging out of his butt about an inch, swaying gently from side to side like a skinny palm tree in a gentle breeze.

“Ryan, it happened again! The—“

‘Damn it Doug, can’t you tell I’m busy? We’ve got a full blown worm outbreak here!’ I tried to grab the little bastard so I could pull him out—maybe rip him in half and stomp him dead.

“What? Listen, I don’t know anything about worms, but there was another rape victim last night. The guy’s from Ft. Lauderdale, he said the thing broke into his house and pinned him up against the kitchen sink, it had one eye and—”

‘Sounds like this guy’s got worm problems of his own,’ I mumbled, cutting off Doug. ‘One worm problem at a time, man, one worm problem at a time…’ I was zoning in on the squiggly bastard, 'if I can get close enough to the rim of his butt-hole without scaring him back inside...'

“Ryan, listen, this is serious. The guy said the thing had one eye and looked like a bat. It came in, raped him, then said if the guy didn’t go straight to the news to tell the tale that it would be back to rape him again tomorrow! Can you believe that? He said the thing told him its name was Popobawa.” I heard the lock on my front door unlatch, and my girlfriend walked in to see me with my crotch on the dogs face, finger and thumb poised as if I was about to provide him with some sexual relief.

“Ryan! What the hell are you doing?”

‘I’m trying to rape this son-of-a-bitch! Get out! You scared it, it went back inside his butt!’

***

It took some time, but I got the worm situation sorted out and things went back to as they usually are. What Doug was trying to tell me, was that the string of man-rapes that had been occurring in Broward County had another victim to add to the list. Each story was the same, a regular-old family would be minding their business at home, when a winged creature would bust in through a window and sodomize the father figure, then tell him to go public with the story or he’d get a follow-up session. It called itself Popobawa.

After some research, I found out that Popobawa (pictured above) was a mythical creature that, until now, lived in New Zealand. According to lore, it plagued the countryside of Zanzibar, and only targeted grown men. It was said that the only way to escape his wrath was to sleep outside, and most New Zealanders did just that when word hit he was back in town. Now he was here, in sunny South Florida, and it was going to be my job to interview the rape-bat’s victims.

***

Doug and I got to the victim’s house around 7p.m. A tent was setup on his lawn, with sleeping bags and pillows lying around like decorations. It was a small townhome community, and some of the neighbors—only a stone’s throw away—were gathered together at their windows, staring out at the man who I assumed was our rape victim.

‘Are you James Winters,’ I asked him.

“Yes… Yes, I’m James Winters…”

‘Well James, my name is Ryan and I’m here with the ______ Gazette and I’d like to publish the story you phoned our office about.’

“Let’s do this quick, it’s getting dark out!” he was genuinely frightened; I’d never seen a black man look so white.

Doug was walking around the tent taking pictures of the scene. As usual, he was muttering under his breath with the assumption that no one could hear him, but again, as usual, his snide remarks were loud and clear—and completely insulting to our supposed rape victim. 'Look at this cheap ass tent. I can't believe I'm wasting film on this crap. What is this, burlap? I hope this damn bat comes back and rapes your whole cheap-ass family. Making me waste my film on this... I hope the wife gets raped, the daughter gets raped, the pets all get raped. And not just any kind of rape; the harsh stuff, like in Oz. Wheelchair rape. Aryan rape. Mexicano rape."

‘DOUG!' I had to shut him up or he'd go on forever. 'Alright, where should we start? You said the thing came in a window. Can I see the window?’

“Naw man, we don’t have time for that! This needs to be published by tonight! That thing said, if I don’t get the word out, that it’s gonna come back tonight! I got kids, man!”

‘Mr. Winters, I’m sorry but we’re a newspaper. Nothing I write will be published until tomorrow,’ his eyes shot open with fear. ‘Are you sure it’s supposed to come back tonight, and not tomorrow night? Hell, maybe it won’t even come at all!’

“Oh my god… Oh my god, oh my god, oh my GOD!” James ran into his tent. “Tell my wife to take the kids and get the hell out of here! Go, tell them!”

I walked over to the house and gave the order to his wife. Doug and I followed and gave them a look of pity as they piled into their Prius and drove off. “So what now,” asked Doug.

‘I guess we wait.’

Doug and I sat ourselves down on the lawn next to the tent. A few hours went by, and we ran out of things to say. After some time of sitting there in silence, I decided to lay back and maybe get some sleep. I didn’t think the creature would make good on its claim—it was probably some ex-con in a costume anyway—so sleep came pretty easy.

***

I woke up to screams in pitch black, smothered by the walls of a collapsed tent. There were heavy grunts and spastic movements that were pulling the tent’s fabric back and forth, making it chafe my face. Two different men were screaming, one I assumed was James, and the other most likely Doug. I crawled around trying to find a way out, and when I finally made it to freedom my nose was blasted by the smell of feces and sweat.

“AaaaaaaAAAAH! AAAAAaaaaaaH!” A gigantic twelve-foot winged beast was crooning over a nude black figure. He was screaming to the rhythm of its thrusts. “AAAAAAaaaaaaaaAAAAAH! UUUURrrrrrAAAAAH!”

‘DOUG! WE NEED TO GO!’ I spun around looking for Doug, but he was already halfway to the car. I ran after him as fast as my legs would take me and hopped into the passenger seat of the car; Doug already had the engine cranked and ready to go.

“I woke up and it was giving me a hand-job! It wanted to screw me too!” poor Douglas, sitting there, shaking wildly with his mouth half open, looking to me for salvation. “It's going to rape me next!”

‘Shut up and drive you f-ing idiot!’

We sped toward Miami at double the speed limit, weaving in-and-out of traffic on the I-95. I asked Doug to stop off at a Walmart on the way, where we both bought shotguns and other outdoor equipment; knives, kerosene lamps, freeze-dried space food. When Doug dropped me off at my apartment I asked what he was going to do when he got home. “There's no way in hell I'm going home," he said, "I’m going to my f-ing parents' house. That thing can bust in and screw my dad, not me! Shit!”